


flowerafterflower

by Oceansonmars



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blow Jobs, Blow Jobs in a Car, Boys In Love, Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Light Angst, M/M, Romantic Fluff, Summer Romance, Teen Romance, additional tags to be added maybe ;), mostly just descriptions of nature, natureporn, victor is Yuuri's muse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:26:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23718934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oceansonmars/pseuds/Oceansonmars
Summary: The first thing that sprung to mind when he saw Viktor was, let me paint you.~Or: Yuuri is working on his uncle's flower farm all summer, Viktor is on his gap year, both are a little scared of the future, and find solace in eachother.Cue lounging by rivers, golden hour painting sessions and sunset sort-of dates. And falling in love (of course)
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri & Victor Nikiforov, Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov
Comments: 18
Kudos: 55





	flowerafterflower

The first thing that sprung to mind when he saw Viktor was, _let me paint you._

He didn't say that, obviously. It's true that Yuuri may lack a filter sometimes, he may be god-awful at picking up on social cues, as he’s been told many a time, it’s the defining feature of his character.  
And he’s not always the kind to get shy or clam up if he says something undignified, he's starting to love his momentary bouts of awkwardness, yet in this instance he grows small, horrified at the thought of asking the Greek-god in front of him; currently busy loading soil sacks onto a trolley, if he can _paint him_ , for god's sake.

Greek-god looks up from where he's hunched over the bags of tomato soil in the courtyard of the nursery. Yuuri didn't even know soil could be specialised, it's always just been dirt to him. But now he knows.  
He also knows there's a sheen of sweat on Greek-god's brow, and he knows that when he stands straight, he’s- Christ- he's tall. Built. Toned. Not gym buff, but defined muscles, one can only assume from real lifting, hard work outside every day.

He’s just been dropped off by the only bus (more of a sweaty metal death-trap) that runs this far into rural wilderness, and frankly, he’s exhausted. Still, being back at the flower farm gives him substance, and he feels himself solidify under the probing, direct rays of the sun.  
No longer the Newtonian Yuuri who will bend at will to be convenient, no longer fluid to mould into what he’s wanted to be. It’s only now that he realises how tired he was, what a burden it is to be a person.  
Needless to say, the prospect of working for his uncle all through summertime gathers his scrambled cords together and winds them into one firm, consistent loop.

Greek god- or Viktor as his name tag reads- smiles brightly despite his noticeable exhaustion, cheeks dimpling deeply like invisible fingers were poking the soft dough of his face.  
Yuuri melts. And no wonder, it's 30 degrees out. But somewhere in the back of his mind he's got a little inkling it might be less to do with the sweltering heat and more to do with the sun kissed man (teenager? Youth? Angel?) in his line of sight.

It really isn't fair, Yuuri's Achilles heel tends to be boys with warm smiles, or maybe just boys in general. (He's probably not gay, he's just an artist and can appreciate the aesthetic beauty of the human form, that's all. An artist who likes holding hands with boys. And kissing them)

Viktor, in Yuuri’s artistic opinion, is beautiful. Hard lines but entirely _soft_. He doesn’t let his mind drift any further than that.

He's been swimming in his thoughts for far too long and Viktor looks at him expectantly- bubbly smile simmered down to a warm, slow grin. It's not cocky in the slightest, it's adorable even.

“I like your hair a lot” He blurts it without thinking. Way to fucking go. An introduction perhaps? Whatever, he really does like Viktor’s hair; a pure and unblemished silver, fluffed and jumbled from the day’s work. It reminds him of the Hyacinth’s in his grandmother’s kitchen. It reminds him of quiet moonlight.

The reply came in the form of a melodic yet hoarse voice, a slight Russian accent clinging to it still, but so much gentler than he had expected.  
“Thanks, I uh- cut it the other day, was a bit nervous about it if I'm honest.”  
He blushes a little, rakes a hand through said hair. His hands are strong, large, not that Yuuri was looking.

“Yuuri, right? I'm working for your uncle this summer.” A pregnant pause.

“it’s lovely to meet you” Again, dimples, ice blue eyes, blue like the bonbons Yuuri ate as a child. Yuuri feels the fatigue of the day’s journey slowly seep out of his joints. The fatigue of the whole year perhaps.

“Here, I can show you to the cottage. If you’d like I mean. It’s a little way down the track and I’m thinking it might get dark soon.”

It won’t be getting dark soon- Yuuri knows this. He knows the stubborn sun of the summer months like an old friend, refusing to go to bed until it’s forced out of the sky by the moon.  
But of course, Yuuri obliges; usually unable to stop rambling, he nods and smiles. The odd sensation of feeling self-conscious washing over him, but it’ll pass, probably, maybe.

Hopefully.

-

In the half hour that it takes to heave his bags down the dust path towards his uncle Seiichi’s cabin, he learns a few things about his new friend: Viktor is taking a gap year before university, Viktor is going to become a businessman like his father, Viktor doesn’t seem at all interested in becoming a cog in the corporate machine, but he does seem interested in becoming a horticulturist. In fact, Yuuri learns that Victor knows pretty much every plant in the woodland down to its family.

“I- sorry, I’ve only just met you and here I am babbling about Germanders like a total loser.”  
The honey-brushed light dripping through the tree canopy makes pretty patterns on his flushed cheeks, so much so that Yuuri nearly forgets to answer. But he catches himself.

“ Viktor” He tests the name for the first time, it feels oddly addicting, a little overwhelming. “I don’t mind, really, I love plants too, and even if I didn’t, I love hearing people talk about something they have a passion for. You can see it shine from within them, it’s when people look most beautiful, I think.”

Only then does he realise what he’s said, what he might have implied. But Viktor doesn’t address it so he doesn’t either.

“Well thank you for humouring me, it’s very kind of you.”

A timid sort of silence stretches between them for a couple of minutes, and Yuuri takes the opportunity to soak in the mellifluous chorus of the countryside; the brook he knows so well softly churning and groaning somewhere on his left, the sigh of a summer evening breeze winding through the labyrinth of tree boughs, birdsong fading in and out of his attention, no rhythm; it should be discordant and ugly, but it blends more gracefully than anyone could expect.  
Somehow that makes it sweeter.

As the sun reclines into the feathery tendrils of the far away pines, light seeps from the sky leaving soft peachy hues in its wake.

He can breathe it in, the scent, so ingrained into his person from the many years of his childhood spent finding haven within these acres, he can barely pick apart the different tones.  
But it soothes him. He feels himself unfold, unfold, curl apart. He’s home.

“When are you most beautiful then?” Yuuri’s pulled out of his thoughts, confused for a second until he processes what’s being asked. Then growing shy again.

“I ah… it’s nothing too cool. Just a little hobby”

“A medium level of cool will do just fine, I’m all ears, Yuuri.”

He says his name so nicely, softly, but not like an afterthought. With delicate attention.

“Well I- I paint. It’s nothing incredible, but it doesn’t really matter how good I am, it’s just an escape from… everything.”  
He’s never been eloquent, that’s why he expresses himself through brushstrokes, and he goes crimson at his clunky words, half expecting the usual patronising snort. But it never comes.

“Much to escape from?” Viktor jokes, maybe Yuuri imagines the hint of sincerity in his voice.  
But he’s not about to tell an essential stranger that yes, there is a great deal to escape from. Like his dreams of art school being smothered by his responsibility as the eldest to run the farm. Like the fact he has a fair amount of friends yet has never been able to escape from this aching sort of loneliness. Like his parents asking why he hasn’t got a girlfriend yet.  
(he asks himself the latter too, often, he thinks he already knows the answer.)

Maybe that’s a conversation for another time.

-

Less cherished by Yuuri is the presence of his uncle. Seiichi isn’t particularly cruel, but he’s never made an effort to conceal his indifference towards Yuuri, towards the world, how things have ended up for him. Just as many lonely middle-aged people seem to be, he’s bitter.

Yuuri has this theory, something along the lines of this; Yuuri represents everything that’s managed to screw his uncle over, modernity making him feel dumb, smart-assed university graduates stealing jobs, and the main event- his father.

When he thinks about it in this way it doesn’t hurt so much, as he’s matured, he can understand how this, just like many things, really is nothing personal.  
People hate ideas much more than they ever hate other people, but there’s no way to give hell to the concept of ephemerality other than giving hell to the next guy who walks in.

Coincidentally, Yuuri is the next guy who walks into the cottage. There’s a sad kitchenette on his left, a huge open plan living space with so much potential to be a Pinterest log cabin reverie. Instead, it’s a storage cupboard graveyard and looks rather like a plywood memorabilia museum. He hates what he’s done with the place.

“I love what you’ve done with the place”

Seiichi’s sitting on a tired leather sofa, its cushions sagging like a frown.

Without looking up from the ancient television set he replies, “thanks, new rug”

Silently they both agree that that’s all the small talk for tonight.

That night when Yuuri sleeps, he dreams that he’s sat at his desk in his old school, and a string of thick honey drips slowly down from the ceiling onto his blazer. The intervals between each drip are painful, decades passing between each globule. Soon he’s coated, stuck fast, he can’t breathe so he closes his eyes.  
When he opens them again, he’s in a field of Lavender that doesn’t smell of lavender, the scent is overwhelming but sheltering. Something about this place feels sacred, like it’s the beginning of time and everything is just about to start, but Yuuri gets to sit quietly, basking in limboid eternity.  
On closer inspection, the lavender that is not lavender happens to be thousands of blue bonbons, each attached to a green stalk and shaking softly in the antique wind.

-

Every day is spent pretty much as expected, shifting crates on trolleys from one store shed to another, loading up delivery trucks with bulbs and saplings and palettes of newly germinated cuttings, watering endless polytunnels when the high heat of the day has subsided, until the whole world smells of fresh, damp earth.  
The difference this time, compared to the many solitary summers Yuuri has been carted off by his parents to gain agricultural experience, is Viktor. For the first couple of weeks there’s an awkwardness, a distance.  
But day by day they both give in, being the only young people around for miles they skip all the normal ice breaking and instead busy themselves talking. About many things, sometimes not at all- but Viktor’s presence is rather lovely. It feels more like there’s a great tree beside Yuuri all day long, never demanding attention but always near in a wonderful kind of way.

He catches Viktor talking to the plants all the time, especially the saplings. He calls them ‘Darling’ and ‘sweetheart’, ‘little one’ and an abundance of fondly whispered Russian words. He painstakingly prunes their leaves and turns them, so they grow evenly in the sun. The other workers ask Yuuri if the new guy’s crazy; to which he gives a non-committal hum, blushing furiously into the peonies he’s weeding.

Late at night sometimes he’ll google, _how to become a tree._ Such a stupid question, He wasn’t expecting any answers and he doesn’t get any.

-

By the third week of knowing Viktor, a comfortable routine is established. Unsaid words pass between them and before they know it there’s an implicit schedule set. As soon as Viktor’s got the early morning death-trap of a bus from the next town over they meet in the small nursery courtyard, Yuuri will be painting and snaps his sketchbook shut as soon as he spots his friend.  
Yuuri doesn’t really show and Viktor never really asks.

They spend each day larking around getting jobs done together. Elated to hide in the wooded areas of the estate when the unsympathetic sun rains down on them at midday and often, they sit under a particular oak tree that seems awfully sentient and praying for Yuuri’s liking.

Here’s how it goes; Viktor reading something and babbling endearingly about the difference between Spanish and native bluebells, Yuuri will drape himself in the long grass, sketching, humming, listening. Sneaking looks at the boy a few feet away from him.  
Viktor never sees, but Yuuri can feel the oak tree grinning smugly over him.

Every evening after all work is done, they scurry down on their bikes to the little brook. Yuuri likes to make Viktor laugh by catapulting himself into the water ridiculously, a belly flop, headfirst, cannonball, whatever he can manage.  
He looks like a fool, but he can’t help himself; he’d dance like a clown if only he got to see his eyes crinkle with joy and hear that loud bark of a laugh in reward.

One time, as they lie next to each other on the riverbank in content silence, feeling perfectly at peace with the world. Viktor rolls on his side and watches Yuuri a moment before asking gently,  
“Do you um, have a favourite plant?”  
Yuuri snorts, he has to.

“You know, you told me yesterday you _did_ have a life, that you were interested in things other than fucking meristems. But then you ask me something like that!”

VIktor is laughing too now, he rolls back over to look at the sky and presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, smiling shyly.

“God, you’re right, you’re right, forget I ever asked.”

“well now I’m thinking about what my favourite plant is, you don’t care anymore?” He practically _invented_ melodrama.

“Jesus Christ Yuuri- just tell me what your favourite plant is!”

Yuuri feigns pensive thought for a while “well, if you must know…”

A sigh “yes, I must know.”

“I’d have to say Hyacinths. They smell lovely, my grandma always had them out in a vase. Without making it sound desperately cheesy, they remind me of her.”

“it’s not cheesy at all, scents are actually really important to people; odour-cued memories tend to be stronger, more emotional, and from earlier in life. Something about the scent processing area of the brain being close to the hippocampus.”

“I’ll be honest, usually I’d call bullshit, but that makes a bit of sense”

“It does a bit. That’s what Proust thinks anyway.”

“Proust? He wrote that long-ass book, didn’t he?”

“’In Search of Lost Time’, stupid long, read it if you ever go to prison.”

Yuuri sits up in offense, “listen buddy, if I ever go to prison, I’m dragging you with me.”

Cue some shoving, some “over my dead body” s, a closely avoided body-slam back into the river and the pair collapsing into a heap back where they started, heavy breathing.

After a moment Viktor says,  
“there’s a bit of a story about hyacinths, wanna hear?” Viktor says this quite quietly and seems to be blushing a little which is odd, maybe he’s still out of breath.

“please go ahead”

“well, it’s Greek mythology.” In his head Yuuri scoffs, of course the Greek god is also some sort of closeted Percy Jackson addict.

“Right so, Apollo had this lover called Hyacinth and… they were really in love, like _really_ in love.”

“sounds like they were in love.” Yuuri jests, he’s met with a soft chuckle.

“When Hyacinth was dying, Apollo was devastated, he blamed himself and tried to use all his medical skills, but it didn’t work out. From Hyacinth’s blood he created flowers, and on the petals inscribed ‘Alas’, it’s a pretty miserable story”

“oh shit! How did she die?”

“um… actually, it was a ‘he’.”

Oh, _oh_.

Viktor goes crimson beside him. The fresh air grows thick. Usually silence with Viktor is comfortable, but he doesn’t like this one bit. He’s got to say something.

They both speak at the same time.

“sorry if that made you uncomfortable-“ 

"No, no, the story it's.... beautiful" Yuuri breathes, so quiet he wasn't sure if Viktor even heard. 

A pause.

“Right,”

Another pause

“I’m fucking freezing, race back to the courtyard”

Just then, there’s a tiny shift. Only a fractional, change in direction, but enough to set them on a slightly different track.

They cycle back to the cottage in silence, neither allowing themselves to think about what it could mean at all.

-

In all of this, all of the sweltering heat, all of the afternoons being lulled into a daze by the sun underneath their tree, Yuuri is just glad to have a friend.  
Viktor is undoubtedly very different to all of Yuuri’s friends back home, it’s not a bad thing at all, but sometimes Yuuri finds himself getting whiplash from the casual philosophies he seems to come up with. Startled at the rush of sincerity he feels when Viktor looks him in the eyes at the end of an evening, pats his arm and says, “we did good today Yuuri.”  
His friends at home are fun, he can’t complain at all, but the connection he feels with Viktor feels like something gentler. Something warm. Making hairs rise on the back of his neck, making him flush.  
And everyday it’s a little warmer.

-  
He’s thinking about how failure and success are illusions when he hears his name being called from afar. Vincent Van Gogh only sold two paintings while alive and now his works sell for oodles of cash. Franz Kafka was a clown to the publishers, he died in squalid conditions and asked his friend to burn all his works when he died, not knowing that they would rise to literary super-stardom.  
If we only exist for a blip in time, and success must fall within that blip for us to consider ourselves fulfilled, then wh-

“YUURI!” His uncle is near shrieking and he storms up the polytunnel with a waddle, courtesy of his huge wellingtons.

A rock hits the bottom of Yuuri’s stomach as he wonders how he’s cocked up this time; did he load the wrong batch of orders into the truck? Did he leave the gate open for the chickens to scramble to freedom? Did he- _god no_ \- did he leave a hose on? (Truthfully, he’s still traumatised from flooding a whole paddock at the age of 7 and wasting a months supply of water)

Before he can apologise profusely for a mistake he doesn’t quite know the nature of, his uncle reaches him, red-faced with anger rather than exertion.

“Can you drive?” he half shouts, looking a little embarrassed, he repeats more calmly. “Can you drive,Yuuri?”  
“I- yes I can drive, I passed my test last year” his confusion growing when a flushed and sheepish looking Viktor appears, lingering timidly at the opening flap of the tunnel.

“Thank _fuck_ ” Seiichi sighs, “What’s his name,Vincent, he can’t even- listen- he’s 19 and he can’t drive, never learnt. I need him to make frequent runs to collect stock; seeds and bulbs and what-not.” All of this is said loud and clear with no effort to conceal his frustration, Viktor has his jaw clenched and looks the other direction.

“I mean, he knows what he needs to get, if you could just- I hate to ask this- could you drive him 30 minutes once or twice a week to meet my trading partners?”  
He looks between his uncle and Viktor, obviously he has no choice; no choice as in he can’t refuse his uncle’s demands, no choice as in wherever Viktor goes Yuuri wants to follow.

-

Yuuri is waiting in a sun-faded olive, semi-rusted pickup truck at the farm gates when he spots Viktor approaching over the verge, tank top hanging off his moderately broad shoulders and exposed collarbones catching the sunlight the same way a hellisnistic sculpture would. For a small moment his heart palpitates; it’s something about the way the 7 o’clock summertime lighting paints the world around him in thick, thick honey, it’s something about the way Viktor’s face softens when he spots Yuuri.

When he gets to the car he leans through the open window on the driver’s side, forearms resting through the frame “Sorry I took so long, needed to get something.”  
The something in question is an ostensibly self-burned CD, some illegible Russian scrawled in black marker on the non-reflective side.  
Viktor cocks his head and gives a goofy smile, “It’s not a road trip without some tunes, right?” his eyes growing wide for a second then back to normal (it’s a habit Yuuri notices when Viktor is especially happy.)  
“I wouldn’t call a 30 minute drive down the highway a road trip, but whatever darns your socks.” Getting only an exasperated huff and a chuckled “never heard that one before” in response

He reaches over to the console _right over Yuuri_ , to place a disk in the player so he can feel the barely-there gust of Viktor’s breath on his forehead, it makes his skin crawl in a way that he tried to convince himself is disgust at the proximity. Viktor fumbles clumsily with the disk, it takes a few extra moments to insert it, and in that time they both resolutely avoid eye contact.

Within seconds the tension dissipates into harmless particulates and Viktor is heaving open the passenger door and clambering in, Yuuri has to obscure a giggle at the sheer amount of _leg_ being crammed into the footwell (his laugh dies when he sees the amount of thigh attached to it). It looks ridiculous, and uncomfortable, and so entirely Viktor. The CD begins to whirr out a melancholic riff of grainy electric guitar, Yuuri lifts his foot off the clutch, and they roll onto the highway. 

-

In ways, these frequent truck journeys would be prime time to delve deeper into the enigma of Viktor, further than the timid companionship that seems to have solidified easily and softly.  
Something about the metal walls of the vehicle seem secure, secret. Something about the long highway stretching out before them, scouring a track through ghost towns, seems to give Yuuri exactly the kind of freedom he’d yearned for. But perhaps not free enough to lead their friendship somewhere so taboo. 

Instead, these trips are usually hushed, punctuated only by the rattles of palettes in the pickup boot and the occasional cheesy quip from Viktor.  
Yuuri thinks he’s been submerged into tepid water, the whole world has slowed and softened to the tune of silky lofi beats and the projection of the bonfire sky through the windshield.  
VIktor thinks his furtive glances to the side go unnoticed, more like he convinces himself. He can’t help it anyway, its out of his control how he behaves at this point. 

Yuuri aches to drive into the sunset and never see anyone but Viktor again.  
Viktor aches to reach for his hand on the gearstick, intertwine their fingers, only held back for fear of destroying everything. 

He instead keeps his hands pressed into his lap. 

-

He falls hard and fast in love with Viktor as easily as the summer shifts towards solstice. It seemed like the most effortless thing in the world. 

In hindsight, it wasn’t fast at all- far from instantaneous. It was gradual and persistent, it was granules of sand dripping through the hourglass, each one invisibile, but soon undeniable. 

And he’s different to previous crushes. Yuuri doesn’t feel inclined to impress him, to push and pull at the material of himself to become noticed, become better. Viktor is the opposite of peremptory, so low maintenance. God, some days they barely talk, but Yuuri could bask forever in the warmth of his presence. 

The truth of the matter is, it’s not about reciprocation. Of course, Yuuri can’t deny falling asleep to the thought of soft kisses in flower fields, but he’s got to be realistic here.  
Yuuri hasn’t met many other guys who would want him that way, he has no reason to think Viktor would be any different. Besides, as the days stretch longer and the light becomes more stubborn to leave the sky, he grows much more conscious that time is slipping away from them. Grains of sand.  
So he’ll take this, he’ll take Viktor’s fingers brushing his as they stroll to the potting shed, he’ll take waking up to a soft and sharp and beautiful face close above his- coaxing him awake from an impromptu siesta. 

It's enough.

-

There are two weeks left when things change slightly, to Yuuri’s surprise. As the majority of his other experiences with love, he expected it to fizzle out gently and disappointingly, carrying away a myriad of possibilities with it as it fades. 

It starts with a sketchbook, open on Yuuri’s desk, and someone looking through it. Specifically, Viktor.  
A wave of unadulterated panic sweeps over him soundlessly. Yuuri isn’t really the kind of person to have apprehension towards intimacy or close his barriers in any sense, but his sketchbook is a little different.  
The mere idea of someone seeing it's contents makes Yuuri's heart drop like a stone, plummeting into deep waters.  
Not that anything particularly damning lies within those pages, but just the fact that it's essentially the purest physical copy of Yuuri's soul, boiled down into an essence and smeared between the lines of hastily scrawled prose, underneath layers of oil pastel and gouache, below flower pressings and mixed into the ink of glossy photo prints.

For anyone to see that, see _him_. So naked and bare, vulnerable to an outsider's astringent gaze. He's not strong enough for that, he's never been that brave. Isolation he can handle, numbness and shapelessness is bearable, but being laid bare out on a table top? Letting someone rifle through his existence like an afterthought, a fun afternoon activity? It’s not something he’ll ever be ready for.

So it's a Sunday afternoon. Though the rainy season isn't yet upon the region, the day has been smattered with soft showers with more scheduled to come. The earth smells ripe and pulsing with life, clouds have cleared and the sunshine peeps gingerly through.  
And then there's Viktor, crossing a line he didn't even know existed. 

It's at that moment that Yuuri lets out a barely audible sob, already semi-obscured by the doorframe- he's ready to scuttle out of sight to avoid the embarrassment of it all.

Viktor looks up at the sound, looks mildly perplexed, then looks guilty, shortly followed by a look of resolution, like he's ready to make excuses and amends, which frankly Yuuri can't handle. Instead he turns swiftly and makes for the fishing shed by the lakeside (more of a glorified pond), it's fallen into disrepair after years of neglect- a childhood sanctuary for as long as Yuuri can remember, but a different kind of sanctuary years later. Viktor for sure won't find him there, which is exactly his goal. This isn't some cute cat and mouse game, he doesn't want to be chased through the foliage like a maiden in a bloody vintage classic; this is all of Yuuri's insecurities spilling over the edge, flooding out like the downpour he expects the minute he's locked himself in the wooden store.

To his dismay, there's no such dramatic weather to mirror the tempestuous way he feels now, the bitter confusion, the embarrassment at his over-reaction. In fact, the weather gets aggravatingly beautiful, so much so that he resigns himself to a sun-drenched rock by the lakeside; sunlight beams from suspiciously blue sky, light winds wash the scent of greenery and summer from fields afar that Yuuri will never visit nor see in the flesh. 

He's thinking about what Viktor said about the power of smell in evoking deep memories, and he's thinking about how scents can travel and linger and leave a story willing to be told if you're there to listen. He thinks about the smell of this summer, the grass that now sports two human shaped dents by the brook, the wildflowers in the forest that Yuuri can't help but cherish infinitely more than the perfectly bred roses they have at the nursery, the scent of Viktor filling up the truck, sweat and musk and earth and human.

So overall, much more than anything else, he's thinking about Viktor.  
What he’ll leave after this is all over.

He hates feeling sensitive; he's more scared of being hurt than being alone.  
To think _Viktor_ \- soft, gentle Viktor, Viktor who treats plants like people and talks to insects and exudes a golden, soulful warmth, Viktor who Yuuri can't help but adore, can't help but let down every wall and just be himself for once- Viktor is the one who Yuuri could feel the most scared of.  
And for this reason his spontaneous theatrics make sense. He's not stupid, he knows when he has a crush, but maybe, just maybe, he underestimated what Viktor means to him and what Viktor's opinion means to him. 

Despite Yuuri's certainty at being totally hidden, his deep boot prints in the damp turf weren't nearly as furtive. Viktor eventually finds him perched on the lakeside pontoon, head pressed into his kneecaps, making no indication of recognising his visitor’s arrival. Said visitor slips his legs off of the edge and swirls them in lazy circles through the summer-warmed water, with no intention of scraping up pleading apologies just yet.

So they sit like that for a long while. It's moderately quiet save the gentle slosh of water on water. In the typical Viktor way, his presence soothes whoever might be lucky enough to be around, and Yuuri's panic is soon quelled to a soft ache. The fear is there, it will always be, but he's ready to face it regardless.  
When he lifts his head from where it was rested, the light has gone golden like syrup. He can't look at Viktor, but he can feel him, so it's okay.

Viktor is the first to break the palpable silence.  
"The worst part of all this is, I knew I was looking somewhere I shouldn't as soon as I saw the first page. I knew it wasn't just a sketchbook to you, it was...something more"  
Viktor pauses like he's thinking hard about how to phrase his next sentence, like he really wants every word to matter. 

"Selfishly, I think that made me want to look more. It got addictive, I just wanted to see this side of you that felt raw and more real than I'd ever seen another person, but that's wrong in so many ways. It was invasive and thoughtless and… oh fuck, oh Yuuri, I didn't mean to make you cry." 

Sure enough, there are tear tracks making their way down the apples of Yuuri’s cheeks.  
It's surprising to say the least- Yuuri hasn’t cried in weeks, months even. It's not something he does, preferring to let his emotions spill in the form of paint, this time however, he just lets it happen, let everything crumble in the hopes that someone might put him back together. 

“I can't believe I-I’m crying. This is so l-lame.” 

“Hey, hey, there's no weakness in crying, you’re alright.”

That sentence twinges something in Yuuri’s chest, something tender he’d never noticed before. As blindingly obvious as the statement may be, he’s never allowed himself the room to speak to himself with such compassion. 

“I’m so sorry Yuuri” Viktor begins, sounding a little snuffly too.

“it's not your fault, it's not you!” Yuuri sputters out, trying and failing to hide the shake of his voice. 

“I’m not crying over a - over a stupid sketchbook”

“It’s not.. Stupid.” VIktor softly offers.

“Okay-okay its not stupid. But I’m not crying just over that, I'm- I’m crying for no reason. And maybe every reason too.”

It’s only now that he thinks he's able to start unravelling the tightness in his chest that he carries with him everywhere, the pressure of being enough, being more. And a fear of the void that his future seems, seconds ebbing away until he’s half the man he thought he could be. 

“It sounds stupid, but it feels like that book is all I really have to convince me that I’m a real human with real emotions. It’s like if I stop creating things I’m proud of, I really won’t matter, I won’t have value as a human being. Isn’t that such a horrible way to live?” Yuuri speaks softly now, defeated, tears still falling. 

Viktor thinks long and hard as to whether the question posed was rhetorical, if he’s allowed to input, if he should even be here, but he decides to take the leap.

“I think… I think it does sound pretty awful, the way you put it. But, you’re sort of right. What are humans if not their legacies?  
The world is cryptic enough, it’s hard to know what to feel and when, and we expect to feel something all the time, losing our minds when we just… live. Without a goal.  
So, we need art, and words, to remind us what we are.”

Yuuri ponders this for a moment. “I think I understand, but I’m scared of it. I suppose I’m scared of how reliant I am on my external impact to prove my worth, I’m not sure I could ever allow myself to just… exist. To deserve happiness just from the fact I’m living and breathing”

With a sudden determination, Viktor turns, looks Yuuri square in the eyes. “You deserve happiness. You of all people, deserve the most”  
He’s blushing softly, a lock of moonlight hair falling across his face, Yuuri wants to kiss the corner of his mouth. He almost does.  
They both turn away and look at the water once more.

Yuuri sits up a little, his eyes trained on a boye resting on the lake’s surface. He’s envious of its limited freedom, how it’s liberated by it’s restraint; bobbing and travelling over ripples but tethered to a base. Yuuri wants to be released from all this, but he’s so, so tired; he’ll settle for being told what to do.

“You don’t have to get everything worked out now Yuuri. It’s easier said than done, but I mean, if people can dedicate their lives to studying the meaning of existence and the formula for happiness, how are we supposed to have our shit together by the age of 18? And how can a human have value anyway? We can mean things to other people, and mean things to ourselves- since when did a university degree come into that?” he finishes his rant almost panting as a blush works its way under the scoop neck of his tank top.

Sniffles turn into a light laugh, “sounds like you’re digging the idea of university then Viktor.”

“You don't know the half of it.” he admits, starting to smile too, but it looks a little sad. 

A happy sadness, a sad happiness, what’s the difference? They're intrinsically linked, Is there really anything more accurate in describing the way of life? 

And maybe for a second, Yuuri can stop his mind racing and just breathe. Stop searching for answers where there aren’t any, but instead rest his head on Viktor’s shoulder, watching as the daylight folds away.

-

Facing up, floating on water, he’s a beech leaf, tugged and shifted by crests of water. He’s pushed around, he doesn’t mind; the breeze seems to have more of an idea of where to go than he does. He feels heavy all the time, as if gravity has a personal vendetta against him, but here, he doesn’t feel like a burden at all.

The sky is watercolour bliss. An azure tablecloth smattered with spilt cream- it drips through the fibres and Yuuri can almost hear the disgruntled sighs sure to follow the blunder. Almost.  
Regardless, the clouds shuffle and fumble through the open air, he’s stopped being a beech leaf and has become a cumulus.  
At some point he remembers he’s a person, and a little after that he remembers the other person perched on the bank. Watching. They’ve both stopped hiding it at this point.

Since their non-fight and heart to heart, the two of them have let themselves spill over. There are still boundaries, still implicit borderlines; but things are both more and less intense than before. They spend most moments laughing, Victor teasing, Yuuri whining, hearts light like children, light like a summer that could never end (which of course, it would)  
Everything is still gentle and timid, there are moments of tension, of gazes, of thinking far too much. There are moments when Viktor leans his head back against their oak tree, and Yuuri listens as he stumbles through the heartbreak of his own life being decided for him. There are instances when Yuuri still feels undeniably lost, not ready to accept that his life will move on and everything will fall away at some point, not ready to admit that he doesn’t and may never know himself. Viktor lends his encompassing arms and his quiet comfort, and slowly Yuuri starts to realise he doesn’t know how to live without it. 

If love was falling, Yuuri has vertigo.  
They both linger, somewhere near the edge, close to falling but not quite.  
Closer, a little closer now, but still holding on. 

-

Hope, despite common belief, is dangerous and threatening and Yuuri wants it to stay far, far away from him.  
Truth be told, he’s not sure his porcelain heart could handle it. He’s had chips along the way, boys who kiss and tell, charming smiles that turn cold, rejection, secrets spilled.  
But Viktor. If Yuuri lets himself even contemplate that maybe one day those hands will clasp his, those lips will whisper “mine”, those eyes will look at him and only him.  
He’s weak. Far too weak for that.  
He’d shatter and break. 

Yes, it's safer to laugh in the fierce sunlight of the days and giggle in the shadowy secludes of late evening. While the sun sets Viktor has started to read him extracts of _L’etranger_. Of course, Viktor can speak French; of course, it makes Yuuri flush warm despite the growing chill. They sit on the pontoon, often Yuuri dozes off. Naturally he can’t be blamed, the combination of Viktor’s delicate French and the lakeside ambiance- crickets, birdsong and all the rest of it. Supposedly L'étranger is a sad, strange book, but Viktor makes it sound beautiful, much like he does with anything he touches.  
_« J'avais tout le ciel dans les yeux et il était bleu et doré. Sous ma nuque, je sentais le ventre de Marie battre doucement. Nous sommes restés longtemps sur la bouée, à moitié endormis. »_  
“Viktor… vik-ngh. Wassat mean?” a sleepy Yuuri awakes, all ruffled black hair and bleary eyes, still mildly interested in a phrase he can’t understand.  
Viktor has to laugh, Yuuri has to follow. A four letter word lingers.  
“It means…. I had all the sky in my eyes and it was blue and golden. Under my neck, I felt the stomach of Marie beating softly. We stayed on the buoy for a long time, half asleep”  
Yuuri lets out a sleepy giggle, he feels drunk and a little reckless. “Like me, like us. Half asleep on a buoy, the sky’s still a little blue, and very golden. Thanks for translating _Monsieur Nikiforov_ ”  
Viktor looks up with one brow raised, small smirk playing on his lips. “That’s only a rough translation, but of course, you wouldn’t know anyway”  
Suddenly wide awake and affronted, Yuuri launches his pencil sharpener in Viktor’s general direction, missing him completely.  
“Fucker! Next time I'll read you the entire Haikyuu manga, I’ll translate every goddamn line, see how you like it!”  
There’s no bite to his words, this Viktor knows. Seven weeks of constant companionship and it might as well have been a lifetime. They can read each other like a book by now. Yuuri can locate 5 of Viktor’s scars and their cause, name every city he lived in growing up, Viktor knows that lofi music will put Yuuri to sleep in seconds, and that the sound of footsteps in movies makes his eyes go big and round and beautiful. Yuuri knows Viktor’s habit of going to flip his hair over his shoulder when he’s frustrated, only to remember he cut it all off. He knows his bus timetable, that the last bus back into town is 9:55, and,  
it’s 10:05

-

There’s nothing to do other than let him stay.  
Just this once.

The futon in Yuuri’s room feels like both a saviour and an obstacle at the same time. On the one hand, he’d die if Viktor had to share his rather narrow bed. On the other, there’s no way he’d ever say no to waking up next to him. Regardless, they ready themselves for bed with backs turned. Shy. Viktor borrows an oversized hoodie of Yuuri’s, it’s small on Viktor, he tries not to think about it.  
They brush their teeth in the mirror together, smiles and locked eyes. It’s all too domestic. Viktor snorts and fetches a towel when Yuuri dribbles down his chin, and once upon a time Yuuri would have blushed beet red, now he just giggles and makes a mess. A mess. That’s what he is for Viktor, and he finds that he doesn’t mind. 

The sun has finally slipped away so Yuuri’s room is cool and blue, moonlight giving an ethereal lighting, it picks up the silver of Viktor’s hair, it picks up his eyes. Just like crystal, Yuuri thinks, Viktor is a crystal. Tough and sharp at times, clear and pure and stunning. Breakable. He lets out a breath. If Viktor is a crystal then what is he? What could he possibly be in comparison? 

A whispered ‘goodnight’, it gets lost in the room, it falls between the cracks in the floorboards.  
So to the most beautiful soundtrack, cicadas and lonely wind, a creaking tired house, Viktor’s soft, soft breathing, Yuuri falls asleep. 

-

He’s jolted awake, a body slams into the covers beside him. It’s a little odd, but once he’s realised it’s not an assassin but rather a man, a man he knows quite well, his heart palpitates even faster. 

Waking up to see Viktor hurts so much. Hurts so good.  
Yuuri, above all, is selfish. If the prospect of them is a total fallacy, he’d take anything he could get. If he can pretend that the man with sleep in his eyes before him, with his usually perfect hair looking horrendous, a half-awake smile playing on his lips- If he can construct a fairytale for two seconds and pretend that the smile is for him, he would. And he does.

In his mind, Viktor is about to get up and open the curtains, let the light bathe them, let them swim in the morning haze. They wake slowly but surely between kisses and sips of loose leaf tea. Their small-holding, with flowers and chickens and a vegetable patch needs tending, it always does. It's so much work but the pride they feel when they reap their efforts is worth it, the feeling of working towards something, growing something together, is perfect. Viktor will put on his t-shirt and shorts, muscles rippling under the fabric, Yuuri won’t have to pretend not to look.  
His daydream goes wild, gets out of hand. There’s a silver ring on his wedding finger, Viktor has one to match. He’ll kiss it, when he gets the chance, maybe over breakfast. 

And it's just a stupid made-up story. And Yuuri feels like a stupid, made-up boy. 

But Viktor isn’t made-up. He’s there, he’s real. Sunlight splashes through the gaps in the blinds and Viktor is soaked, he’s golden, he glows. But then when does he not. 

His smile grows, it’s so fucking beautiful. It’s the kind of smile that makes him feel beautiful too. Suddenly Yuuri solidifies and the world is real and fresh and not so big and not so small. Maybe there is a _them_. Maybe there could be an _us_ , for a little while.  
“Mornin’” Yuuri’s voice sounds rough and thick.

“Dobroye utro” is the reply

“Ohayou” Yuuri jests. 

“Bonjour” Viktor smiles, he knows he’s won. His reward is a slap on the shoulder and Yuuri rolling to face away, huffing cutely. He hopes. 

And maybe that would have been the end of it, but as if someone had slipped something into his water, or maybe the influence of sleep was still over him, Viktor wriggles closer and closer. They’re almost spooning, and Yuuri nearly has a heart attack. Because that’s how weak he is, weak enough that soft breath on the back of his neck, that a body behind his, a hand around his waist, can send him into overdrive.

So he does what he does best, he whines and squeaks, squirms and wiggles all while hoping Viktor won’t let go. And he doesn’t, he just laughs. And they just lie there, the morning too early to get up, their embrace too warm to want to. 

-

“Can I paint you?”  
Yuuri says it without even thinking. They’ve taken the afternoon off while the polytunnels get some reparation work done, but it’s way too hot to be outside, even under the shade of their tree. They’ve settled for lazing around in Yuuri’s room with the fan on full blast. Victor’s draped across his bed and Yuuri’s cross legged on the floor. Viktor reads while Yuuri sketches. They chat aimlessly, slipping in and out of meaningless but very much meaningful conversation. Until Yuuri asks the question.

For a moment Viktor looks shocked, then all too smug for Yuuri’s liking.  
“Well Yuuri, I see you’ve finally realised how devastatingly gorgeous I am”  
He wriggles his eyebrows teasingly and Yuuri wants to explode.

“Christ, Viktor, I didn’t take you for being such a cocky bitch, I don’t think I even want to draw you now” a total lie, Yuuri would give his life to paint Viktor, he’d sell his fucking soul. 

Fortunately Viktor plays along, as he always does with Yuuri’s mini-tantrums.  
“Yuuuuuri,” he drags his voice out cutely, Yuuri feels like butter, “please paint me, I’d be honoured, you’re so talented”

Yuuri gives in immediately.  
So he paints. He paints for hours, he paints until the sun dips and fades. Viktor sits perfect, patient, reading his book, looking like everything Yuuri thought love would be.  
The lighting in the room changes, it simmers and grows and seeps into the horizon, but Yuuri paints with golden, peachy hues regardless, it’s not even a choice. He’ll never be able to look at Viktor and see anything other than a sunrise.

The final product is mediocre at best. The proportions are a little off, the brushstrokes are perhaps too overt despite Yuuri’s rather impressionistic style. But Yuuri doesn’t care, for once, he can’t self-criticise, because the painting captures the most wonderful essence of Viktor. The shyness despite his pride, his sharp features and soft expressions. 

When Yuuri shows him, Viktor has nothing to say, just grips him tight, picks him up and twirls him, before looking back at the canvas with glee. 

That night, Yuuri doesn’t wash the stains of oil paint off of his hands, hoping for the colours of Viktor to stay on his skin forever. 

-

Viktor stays the entire weekend. Then the whole week. Neither are quite sure how it happened. One moment he misses his bus, the next he’s part of the furniture. Seiichi doesn’t seem to care or mind; Viktor’s labour is nearly free, and he’s far too preoccupied with phone calls and trades to bother with whether his lanky, pensive farmhand is staying on his Nephew’s futon. 

They eat breakfast by the brooke, sometimes awake earlier than the birds. They sleep separately at night but Yuuri always finds this labrador of a man snuggling into him in the morning. They muck around and work hard like usual, through sweltering days and the humid summer heat. Journeys in the truck are filled with impromptu karaoke and soft, wistful silences. They sit through sunsets, they watch the burning sky. 

Memories of summer, blue and golden, blue and golden. Every moment painted with melancholy.

Because despite the bliss these past eight weeks have been, despite it getting better and better, closer and closer to falling, time is always looming. Calendar pages turning. Viktor only has less than one week, 5 days before he goes to business school over in America. Yuuri only has 5 days to return back to his family farm, before he turns his back on art school forever. 

They have less than one week together. And it would be stupid to ruin it with too many feelings. It would be better to leave it as it is, leave the memories rose-tinted and perfect forever. Give themselves a way to wonder They have less than one week together. And it would be stupid to ruin it with too many feelings. It would be better to leave it as it is, leave the memories rose-tinted and perfect forever. Give themselves a way to wonder _what if?_ In years to come, in the depths of loneliness they could look back on this summer and know that once they truly felt what it meant to be alive.

Viktor has never had a friend mean more to him than Yuuri does, he says as much while they’re loading sapling orders into the storage shed on the last day. The air is damp and stale, the lighting is dark and dingy. Somehow everything is still beautiful.  
Yuuri starts to cry, for the second time this month. Perhaps it's a side effect of Viktor’s presence. He cries gently while Viktor holds him, cries as he rocks their bodies from side to side, cries as he responds. That yes, Viktor means the world to him too. Has changed him, made him stronger, made him braver, made him feel more like a human being.  
Large hands brush through his knotty locks, Viktor sighs like a tree, an oak tree. Yuuri can feel a smile pressed into his hair. When did they become so fond and affectionate with each other?  
“Can we drive somewhere tonight, I want- I’d like to show you something, if you want.”  
His face is still buried in Viktor’s chest, his scent is everywhere. “I want” He replies meekly.  
He wants, there’s so much that he wants. 

-

The _somewhere_ is a hilltop, 45 minutes drive down the highway, then off through some wooded, winding roads.  
It’s still light, it’s quite mild. Because summer is ending. Yuuri wishes he was melting in the heat instead.  
They drive in relative silence, some beautiful jazz piano on the radio. It’s pretty but it doesn’t fit. It changes minutes later. _What are you doing the rest of your life?_ Bill Evans.  
The song is so longing, so yearning. Dreamy chords sounding forlorn, but rather like reflecting on a beautiful time past.  
The flowery years.  
Fa Yeung Nin Wa. 

Once they reach their destination, a dusty clearing on a cliffedge, Yuuri can see why Victor brought him here. The view stretches for miles, overlooking at least three of the next towns over, a spread of fields, farms, wooded groves and mountains on the far horizon. Yuuri feels at a total loss for words, it’s surreal.  
He feels very small, and for the first time it’s not such a bad thing, quite the contrary.  
He and Victor are invisible on the hilltop, with the wind flourishing through strands of their hair, whistling through their now intertwined fingers. No one can see him now, no one can tell him who he is and what he’ll do. The world is big and unbeatable and beautiful. The world is magical and grows people like Victor, the world is perfect and allows two people to find each other, to love each other, even if just for a little while. And even if all good things come to an end, Yuuri will take it, he’ll take this, holding hands with Viktor as the sky fades into something blue and golden and real. 

Viktor has laid down a blanket in the back of the truck, he’s brought a bottle of vodka and some cola. This is a date.

“This is a date, right?” Yuuri hardly means it as a question, with a day or so left, what’s the point in cowering away from it anymore.

Viktor just smiles, nods, he looks a little shy, it doesn’t suit him, but Yuuri finds it perfect anyway.  
They sit and drink a little, they babble about nonsense, Yuuri makes the most ridiculous Russian accent while chugging vodka and Viktor laughs and laughs.  
Sincere moments arise; they thank each other, they’ll miss each other, they’ll never forget each other. 

The evening wears on and the alcohol wears in. Yuuri, averse to the cold and inhibitions crumbling, snuggles himself into Viktor’s side like it’s the most natural thing in the world, which in a way it is.  
And for a while they just watch the view, watch the clouds curl and unfurl, shifting and tumbling on. Until Viktor, Yuuri was like this. Feeling shapeless, feeling temporary, feeling fragile and lost and swept up in the pace of the world.

Waxing and waning. Until Yuuri, Viktor was like this. Never knowing where he was meant to be, never feeling like he was whole, like he was present. Never understanding if maybe one day he could look in the mirror and recognize his reflection.

It gets even colder. Viktor has to bundle a vodka-flushed, slightly tipsy Yuuri into the backseat of the truck, wrapped in a blanket and all. He tumbles in shortly after, scanning over his companion’s rosy features. Blushing cheeks, pretty little lips, a button nose, and the kindest, gentlest eyes. For Viktor, he’s long stopped being scared of his affections towards all people, all genders. He no longer feels like an outsider. Because really, truly, who could look at this boy and not fall head over heels in love.

And Yuuri, he’s still a little scared, a little ashamed. But when Viktor whispers, tentatively, almost inaudibly, “I’m in love with you, Katsuki Yuuri”, there’s suddenly nothing to fear anymore. 

It’s rather easy how they fall into each other. They kiss so shyly, so delicately at first, stopping to brush hair from the other’s face, stopping to laugh, stopping to whisper a breathless “I love you too”, sometimes stopping just to look, to stare. Soon enough they’re kissing with more passion, like they’re running out of time,  
and they are.  
Yuuri didn’t think he’d get here, making out with his greek-god in the back of his uncle’s pickup, golden light filtering through the windows and making the whole world slow like honey. There’re hands running through his hair, teeth nibbling at his lips.  
Viktor’s smell, Viktor’s taste, he’s intoxicated and he’s trapped and he despises the moments he has to emerge from the depths of the kiss for air.  
He ends up on his back, Viktor’s weight crushing him in the most wonderful way, and he can’t stop touching, hungry to taste the moonlight caught on Viktor’s lips.

They undress slowly but surely, naturally. Viktor slides off Yuuri’s shirt, Yuuri unbuttons his jeans. Hands run over milky skin and the air begins to turn heated with want. They don’t stop kissing, but Viktor lets his lips wander to other places. They graze over Yuuri’s neck, down his collarbones, his nipples, earning gasps and whines that Yuuri is too far gone to even be embarrassed for. 

A hesitant “Can I touch you?” turns into Yuuri’s mouth on Viktor. He’s not hugely experienced, but Viktor doesn’t seem to mind. He takes him, swallows his down as best he can and watches him, furrowed brow and panting heavily.  
With no finesse, Yuuri tastes him in any way he can, running his tongue around the head, hands twisting around the base, it feels so good to finally have this, to finally take Viktor apart in the most intimate way despite the vulgarity of the situation.  
And even though there’s nearly no space in the footwell, even though the seat leather rubs his back uncomfortably and he has to fold his legs underneath him awkwardly just to bob his head; it’s worth it to see Viktor curse in Russian above him like some fallen angel, jaw slack and fingers tugging softly at strands of Yuuri’s hair as he finishes. 

In the aftershocks of his orgasm, Viktor finds Yuuri’s lips, finds his body, and wraps a hand loosely around him, tugging until Yuuri falls to pieces with meek, high-pitched cries while Viktor whispers praises and soft-spoken encouragements into his ear.

In this summer afterglow, he’s sure, no one’s ever loved like this before. 

-

It's a day of lasts.  
Last time Yuuri will wake up to see Viktor,

“Goodbye, Yuuri”  
“Goodbye, Victor. And thank you. ``I-I love you”  
“And I you”  
Neither cry, it's not the time. Both can only remember the happy, sunny moments. That’s all that’s important.

Yuuri gets one good look. One good look at this demi-god of a human being. The soft, sharp face. The silver, mercury hair. His eyes. Eyes like bonbons, like crystal, like blue sky and lake waters. His smile that takes Yuuri to pieces and builds him back up. His hands that hold Yuuri’s gently, but firmly, never letting go. But now, now letting go.  
As he turns to walk away, the most heartbreaking look on his face, Yuuri manages to stutter out.  
“I’m not going to look, not going to watch you go”  
Viktor nods.  
“I’ll close my eyes and breathe in, and you could be right here next to me. And you’ll still be with me until I open them, when I’m ready.”

So that’s what he does, he closes his eyes and doesn’t open them. Not even when he feels a hand brush through his hair, not even when he feels breath on his face, soft lips on his. A kiss on his left temple, his right eye. Shuffling, footsteps, and then just the sound of the forest. 

-

And so the entire world both opens up and folds away before Yuuri’s eyes. He packs his bags the day after, not that he brought much in the first place, yet can’t shake the feeling that he’s leaving something behind. Dust-covers envelope all the furniture in his room now, and he bids farewell to his uncle without much commotion, glad for their very low-maintenance relationship at this point. 

Something awful, something like metal, heavy and cold, sits within Yuuri.  
It aches. 

Despite the sunshine, the fresh new morning, the clear horizon, Yuuri can’t shake the feeling that everything good is already over. He’ll return home, reject any places at art school, and ready himself for a monotonous lifetime as a farmboy. And he’ll do all of this without Viktor. 

His lips still buzz from their kisses last night, and again, he aches for more. It seems so bitter as just as they surrendered completely to what felt inevitable, fate reminded them that the world is not so kind. 

Dragging his bag behind him, Yuuri strolls to the farm gates where he’ll be reluctantly collected. The day has begun with a crisp morning sun, but he’s lost in thoughts of sunsets and hilltops. Lost in thoughts of Viktor.  
It’s at this point that Yuuri rummages in his pockets for a pencil, ready to sketch fields-afar as he waits, before that night fades from his memory forever. 

Instead, his hand brushes a small, neat square of cardstock. Not like the watercolour paper Yuuri uses, nor thin like a stray receipt. His heart beats so hard in his ribcage it almost winds him, he doesn’t want to get his hopes up, but they’re already soaring to the sun.  
Like Icarus, aware the fall could kill him, but so helpless to do anything other than hope. 

Scrawled in Viktor’s elegant handwriting, the note reads:  
_Yuuri,  
I’ll follow my heart if you follow yours.  
Go to art school in New York, You deserve to live the life you choose. You deserve happiness.  
I’ll meet you there. I love you.  
Yours, Viktor_

_Yours_

He’s _mine_

Something within Yuuri sparks once more. Hope, passion, ambition, it doesn’t even matter. 

_Wait for me Viktor, I’ll be there_

**Author's Note:**

> DON'T WORRY GUYS THERE WILL BE AN EPILOGUE :3 they will be together 4eva i swear
> 
> my first fic hhhhhh be nice erryone, this was so cathartic for me to write, (mostly written last summer tbh) and I've grown to love my boys so much. FYI this isn't really set in a specific country, i guess Japan or the US??? but i haven't been to either so i can't promise accuracy. also i've projected my british-ness so everyone talks like they're from harry potter sorry not sorry.  
> tysm for reading!!! xxx
> 
> title from flowerafterflower by Lightning Bug, I've also referenced other songs in here but I can't remeber em yeet


End file.
